Monster Mash
by Mr Sinister
Summary: Sleepless nights have become part and parcel of life for Archangel & Psylocke thanks to their newborn son, but this one is slightly different, as Warren has something he needs to say...


**_Monster Mash_**

   The crowds are getting restless. "Angel! Angel!" they chant, row after row of squealing late teenage girls and early-twenties women ready to hear their favourite rock star sing all his greatest hits. I strut on stage, my priceless guitar slung around my neck and my tattooed arms bare. My hands are gloved with leather, my long hair is flowing loosely down over my shoulders, and a long sleeveless leather coat flaps around my ankles. I close my eyes and open my mouth to begin singing, and…

   … and all that comes out is a high-pitched, wailing scream. My eyes snap open as Betsy stirs next to me, our son's crying having woken her up as well. She begins to stir under our duvet, and I lay a hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry, sweetie. I'll go," I whisper, reassuringly. "What does he need?" Betsy closes her eyes for a second or two, her brows creasing together as she tries to read our son's mind while still being half-asleep herself (easier said than done, apparently, since the little guy is only getting more and more agitated the longer we leave him). Finally, she tips her head in a knowing kind of way, her eyebrows raised in understanding.

   "He needs a new nappy, that's all," she says without opening her eyes, a slow smile spreading across her beautiful face even through the fatigue (there seems to be bit of relief mixed in there as well, though, which doesn't surprise me even one tiny bit). "Looks like you got the short straw this time, my angel."

   "Had to happen sometime, I guess…" I flip back my half of the duvet and then sit up, feeling all the sleep in my body rush into my head at about five hundred miles an hour, hitting the inside of my skull and making me dizzy for a moment or so before I can adjust. "Okay, honey. You just try and get back to sleep and I'll see to junior, all right?" Leaning over, I kiss her on the forehead and watch her settle back down under the duvet. Within less than two minutes, she's asleep again, her face serene and blissfully peaceful. 

   Leaving her to curl the duvet around herself, I walk over to the polished oak-wood crib standing in the nursery annex of our bedroom, which Logan gave to us shortly after Tom was born ("Made that cradle myself, bub," he said to me at the time, with a big, proud smile plastered all over his hairy face. "Hope your kid likes it."). Reaching down past the intricately carved headboard, I pick Tom up with both hands, and then carry him over to the changing mat that we keep set up on a small table in a corner of the room, after first whispering a few soothing words into his ear and rocking him back and forth gently. "Easy, slugger, easy," I murmur gently, trying to calm him down a little before I lay him down on his back. "Let Daddy change you, and everything'll be fine."

   Unfortunately, it seems like Tom doesn't see things the same way I do – which doesn't surprise me; he's pretty much been doing that since the moment he was born, after all. The kid takes after his mom, I guess; both of them have really strong wills, and if you don't do right by them, then they'll let you know all about how they feel about that. Tom struggles as I try to ease the soggy diaper off his lower body, as if he wants to make this as difficult as he can for me, in return for his having to wait so long for me to get to him. Eventually, though, I manage to get the thing off and dump it in the trash. Grabbing another from the large plastic economy-size pack that sits by the changing table, I put it to one side, ready to sit Tom on it once I've cleaned him up a little, and then deftly run a couple of wipes over the affected area. Tom settles a touch when I'm through doing that, his little face displaying his obvious relief, and I'm able to lay him on the new diaper without so much trouble. "See?" I tell him with a tired smile. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

   Picking him up with both hands once I've fastened his new diaper in position, I lay him against my chest and rock him gently, trying to get him to go back to sleep. He squirms against me grouchily, as if I've overstepped my boundaries. 

   Looks like this is going to take longer than I thought.

   Walking over to the nursery again, I grab a robe and then rummage through the toy-box that Scott has built for us (I think he did it just to one-up Logan, actually, but it's a pretty nice piece of work – it's decorated with painted characters from nursery rhymes, like Humpty Dumpty, the Billy Goats Gruff, and Cinderella. Of course, Scott being Scott, behind all these characters is an intricate double helix design – like that of DNA – which loops and twists in and out of the landscape on which all the characters are stood. Some things never change, I guess…), and bring out a battered copy of _The Very Hungry Caterpillar,_ which the Professor gave to Betsy and me just after Tom was born. "Come on, slugger – how about I read you a bedtime story?" I whisper, carefully keeping my voice as low as possible. "There's a first time for everything, after all..." Padding carefully out of our bedroom and out onto the hallway floor, I sneak down the curving staircase with Tom balanced in my arms, trying to keep Tom as quiet as possible so that I don't end up waking the whole entire mansion. When I reach the ground floor, it's a lot less trouble to move into the rec. room and flip the lights on so that I can find my way to a comfy armchair, so after a few moments of adjusting to the bright light, I quickly find a seat and settle down into it. 

   Opening the book, I begin to read, hoping that the soft sound of my voice will help Tom go back to sleep: "In the light of the moon a little egg lay on a leaf…" I know Tom's really too young yet to even partially appreciate what I'm saying to him, but it doesn't stop me from enthusiastically pointing out the bright colours and friendly shapes that cover the pages of the little book as the two of us progress past each object that the Very Hungry Caterpillar has eaten his way through. "Doesn't he look great?" I say, pointing at the Caterpillar's final evolution into a butterfly. Tom doesn't react, his eyes having closed in sleep in between the final pages somewhere. I put the book down on the table next to my chair, and, stroking his fair hair gently, cradle my son close to my chest. It's hypnotic, almost, watching him sleeping like this. He looks so peaceful, as if there's nothing in the world that could wake him from his dreams, and there's an aura of innocence around him that I can almost touch. 

   "That's my boy," I whisper gently. "I knew that caterpillar guy would help us out." Then, abruptly, something comes into my mind that I haven't given voice to before now, for one reason or another. I figure now's as good a time as any to do that… "You know, son, I never did thank you for what you and your sister've done for me and your mommy. Before you guys came along, your mommy and I… well, your mommy and I had lots of problems, put it that way." I pause, smiling ruefully. "Oh, don't get me wrong, champ, I loved your mommy and I always will, and she loved me, but we didn't have everything we should have had. I didn't have my real wings for the longest time, and your mommy didn't have a real sense of who she was anymore – and she had to deal with… with a lot of bad things happening to her. Then your big sister came along, and we had to do a lot of thinking about what the two of us were going to do. Took the three of us a long time to learn to live together like a family, but we got there in the end." I smile again, a little more brightly this time. "And then you came along. If you could have seen your mommy's face when she held you in her arms for the first time, you'd have known just how happy you made her that day. You fixed her, kid – you and your sister. You fixed her." I sigh, blinking away the tears I can feel beading at the corners of my eyes. "You don't know how grateful I am for that."

   "I knew, Warren. And it means an awful lot to me, too."

   Glancing over at the door, I see Betsy stood there in her nightgown, a silk robe cinched tight around her waist, and her arms folded over her bosom. "Betts?" I say, bewildered. "I thought you were –"

   "Asleep?" Betsy finishes, shrugging and spreading her hands wide. "I was, but something woke me up." Her purple-painted nails reflect the light from the overhead fixtures, glinting slightly as she walks towards me and finds a seat close to mine, her blonde hair falling in waves around her face. "Call it my woman's intuition." She smiles, her blue eyes shining. "You read that story beautifully, you know."

   I blush sheepishly, even though I'm pretty sure I shouldn't have to feel that way. "You heard that too, huh?"

   Betsy nods. "Every word." She grins suddenly, her pearly-white teeth sharply contrasting with her full pink lips. "You old softie, you. Who'd have thought the Angel of Death would have a weakness for the classics?"

   "Hey, when you've lived with someone like Bobby for as long as I have, you kind of pick these sorts of things up," I retort, returning Betsy's wide grin at the same time. Betsy chuckles, stretching out her arms above her head as she does so, and then strokes Tom's face with her fingers, smiling as he shifts a little in my arms and makes contented sounds in his sleep. 

   "Of course," she says sagely, nodding with a knowing look on her face. "Whatever you say, Mr Worthington." Then, she leans in close to me and cups my cheek in her hand, placing her lips gently on mine. "Promise me you won't ever become a politician, my angel," she whispers in my ear, after she has broken the kiss. "You can't lie for peanuts."

   "Yeah, I know. Kind of sucks, considering the business I'm in," I laugh, before yawning widely. "Jeez. I must be more tired than I thought," I say, before looking at the grandfather clock in the corner of the rec. room (which shows that it's about three-thirty in the morning). "We should get you back to bed, champ."

   "I suppose we should, at that," Betsy says, stifling a yawn of her own with the back of her hand. She pushes herself up off her chair, and then takes Tom from me while I stand up – being careful not to disturb him too much in the process. If there's one thing we've both learned since we've been blessed with our son, it's that Tom is very, very picky about how people handle him. One thing done wrong and he'll let you know about it, very loudly. It's something virtually the whole mansion has had to learn the hard way – seeing Wolverine, the X-Men's consummate tough guy, reduced to a haggard mess after spending only a few minutes trying to get his new "nephew" to settle down was an eye-opener to say the least. In fact, virtually the only people who've managed to avoid that kind of trouble were Bishop and Emma Frost – like I'd predicted a little while ago, they weren't exactly lining up to get close to the new kid, and have thus far managed to stay out of his way as much as possible. Bishop does his best to maintain his "grizzled loner" image by spending the "family time" we've put aside regularly for the team sitting on the back steps of the mansion, cleaning his guns and generally looking like he's picking out targets in the woods beyond the edge of the grounds. And as for Emma, well… she usually drags Bobby upstairs for some noisy sex when Tom arrives for everybody to see. The Professor's told me that she doesn't like the emotions that the rest of the team give off when they're around Tom, as if she thinks they're a corrupting influence on her (and knowing Emma as well as I do, that doesn't surprise me at all).

   When we're satisfied that Tom is as happy as he can be, Betsy and I leave the rec. room, being careful to make as little noise as possible. Betsy cradles Tom close to her chest, singing a quiet lullaby to him in the hope that the soothing words will keep him sleeping for as long as possible. The boards of the main staircase creak threateningly as we climb towards the second floor, every sound magnified about a thousand times by the very silence they're interrupting. Eventually, we make it up to our room, our footsteps dulled by the thick carpeting on the landing, and I hold the door open for Betsy to creep through. Gently, softly, Betsy pads over to Tom's crib and lays him down on his mattress, pulling his blue blanket over his small form. Leaning down, she kisses her fingers and brushes them against his tiny cheek tenderly. "Goodnight, precious," she whispers. "Sleep well." 

   Leaning past her, I say goodnight to my son myself, gently touching his arm with my fingers and murmuring a quiet message of love to him. When I'm finished with that, I shut the door of the nursery, pad back to bed and slip under the duvet, feeling Betsy begin to snuggle up against me as I do so. Her bosom feels warm and soft against my chest, and I brush her hips with my hands, kissing her gently on the mouth at the same time. "You know what… I just realised something," I say when she has drawn back, the strawberry taste of her lips still fresh on my tongue. "This is going to be our life for the next twenty years, isn't it?"

   Thoughtfully, Betsy props her head up on her hand, easing her elbow into a comfortable position on her pillow. "I suppose it is, Warren – and I don't know about you, but I find that quite comforting, in a way. At least it means I have some idea of where my life is headed." She leans over slightly, kissing me again. "I haven't had that feeling for years. I've missed it."

   "Yeah," I agree. "I have, too." 

*

   The sizzle of bacon and eggs fills the kitchen as I prod my cooking with a wooden spatula, after having poured two glasses of orange juice and set out two large plates by the side of the kitchen hot plate. I thought it would be nice to get Betsy some breakfast in bed as a special treat – what the hell, she deserves it (or at least the way I figure it, anyway). She'll probably tell me that bacon and eggs will send her cholesterol level through the roof, but the way I see it, pan-fried bacon can't really do that much to a woman whose idea of light physical exercise is to run through an entire Danger Room simulation on her own… with the safety switches off. And even though she's not supposed to be burning off the weight she gained during pregnancy just yet, she'll probably try it anyway just to see if she can manage it.

   A noise behind me startles me out of my concentration, and I turn to see Bobby with his hand poised against the wooden surface of the doorframe. "Morning, Wings," he says brightly, before sauntering into the kitchen and picking up a ripe green apple from the bowl on the counter. "Didn't expect you to be up right now – doesn't that kid take it out of you?"

   "No," I say. "Not at all."

   Bobby blinks. "Really? That true?"

   "Not really," I reply, laughing. "But it's all been so worth it, being tired doesn't mean an awful lot. I guess you could say it's like you putting up with Emma – sometimes it's messy and difficult, but you get so much out of it that in the end it doesn't matter. That sound accurate to you?"

   "You could have picked a better comparison, dude," Bobby says, folding his arms. "Emma doesn't have to wear a diaper, for a start." He grins. "But yeah, it's worth it in the end. Emma likes to do this thing with ice cream and cherries that –"

   I hold up my hands, as if to push away the image of Emma and Bobby having food sex. "Too much information, Bobby – _way too much information."_

   "Says who? The man who aired the video of his son being born on movie night?" Bobby mimes the act of vomiting. "Jeez, I haven't been so ill since I ate that bad taco at Harry's."

   "Hey, don't blame me for that, man. You didn't _have_ to stay, you know" I say, shrugging. "I seem to recall you passed up an opportunity to take Emma out dancing that night, so it's not like you couldn't have been somewhere else if you'd wanted to be."

   Bobby makes a face. "Call it misplaced loyalty – I thought I should be there for you and Betsy, instead of going out to enjoy myself, because you guys are my friends. Satisfied, dude?" He takes a big bite out of the apple in his hand and shakes his head. "Married people…"

   "You never had this much trouble with Scott and Jean, Bobby. What's the difference between those two and me and Betsy?" The snap of bacon cooking to its ideal crispness makes me turn back towards the hot plate, readying my spatula in my right hand. Scooping up the strips of meat, feeling their delicious scent fill my nostrils, I flip them onto the two nearby plates, along with some eggs and a few beans. "Come on, man, I'm interested now."

   "In a word? They ain't rich," Bobby chuckles, before he gestures at the two plates I've put onto a tray. "You better get those upstairs, man, or Betsy'll never forgive you. In fact, she'll probably sue."

   "Oh, you're a riot, Bobby. I don't know _why Saturday Night Live hasn't picked up on you yet," I say, walking quickly towards the door of the kitchen. "Excuse me – I think I hear my son waking up."_

   Bobby nods. "See you later, dude." He falls silent, before he calls to me as I leave the kitchen. "Hey, Warren… you're bringing Tom out to see us later, right? It's just… well, Emma's out of town today, and…"

   Turning back towards him for a moment, I smile. "Of course, Bobby – I understand. Couldn't disappoint an old friend, now could we?"

   The expression on Bobby's face tells me everything I need to know about how he feels about that. And it puts a spring in my step to know it, all the way up to where Betsy is waiting for me. When I open the door (with a little difficulty, given that I have to brace the tray I'm carrying against the wall in order to find a spare hand to turn the handle), Betsy frowns at what I've brought up for her. "You know, Warren, I really shouldn't eat that sort of thing – and certainly not right now, when I've got more than enough fat I should be trying to get rid of. And not only that, it'll get into my milk and make Tom fat, too. And you wouldn't want that, would you?" She wags her finger at me, as if she's a schoolteacher disappointed with my performance on a test.

   "Aw, come on. One time won't do you any harm, honey," I say encouragingly. "Besides, after the night we both had, I think we deserve it, don't you?"

   At that, Betsy's naughty smile returns. "All right, Warren. All right. You twisted my arm..."


End file.
